There Inside
POTO belongs to its creators.
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Christine watched the red paper lantern hanging from Madame's rafter swing idly on a wayward whisper of air, casting weird, undulating shadows on the walls. Her days of bedrest had stretched on unendingly—especially with Madame Giry's promise hanging over her head.
He wanted to see her! Face to face, at last!
The door creaked open. Christine closed her eyes, feigning sleep. She was tired of being fussed over. The light, dancing patter of slippers could only be Meg. Christine cracked open a discreet eyelid and saw her friend bearing a tray with a steaming tureen of soup and a vial of medicine with soft-footed care. Christine made a show of yawning and blinking sleepily up at Meg.
"And how ees zhe patient thees evening?" Meg drawled, imitating the old doctor's heavy accent. Christine smothered a giggle in her hand, then mustered an appropriately sober expression. Meg set down the tray on a nearby table and fisted her hands on her hips, eyebrow arched in teasing invitation.
"I am well, Monsieur, I mean Herr Hauptmann." Christine said solemnly. A smile threatened to break Meg's tenuous hold on her character, but she was the best ballerina in their corps even at the tender age of fifteen, and a professional.
"Vell, en zat case, I sink you can continue your normal achtivities in zhe morning," 'Doctor Hauptmann' bade. Eyes sparkling with humor, Christine nodded, not trusting her voice.
"But first," 'Doctor Hauptmann' went on, the accent faltering, "You must take your medicine."
Christine wrinkled her nose, remembering the viscous, bitter liquid the doctor made her imbibe every time she had the slightest hint of a cold. This vial was different, a small cylinder of clear glass instead of a dubious brown liquid made even more suspicious housed in an opaque green goblet.
Meg pulled the stopper and handed it to Christine, warm with sympathy. Madame Giry was most zealous in matters of their health, and every ballet rat adhered to her strict regimen of tonics and cures. Christine threw back the medicine, bracing herself for a horrid taste. It wasn't Doctor Hauptmann's brew, but something densely herbal with the faint sweet tang of honey. Not bad, considering.
Meg nestled beside Christine on her narrow cot, their role-playing game forgotten. Meg picked up Christine's hand with familiar ease and Christine nearly breathed a sigh of relief. In the throes of her fever, Madame and Meg's touch was as cold as ice. Now, gentle warmth emanated from her casual clasp.
"I'm so glad you're feeling better, Christine. You had me worried, rambling about angels on the roof. You must have been delirious."
Christine bit her lip, feeling a faint sting of regret. How many nights had she and Meg stayed up late whispering their darkest secrets? What sort of friend was she, withholding the most wonderful of truths from her best friend? Meg was morbidly fascinated with the Phantom of the Opera, claiming that her mother spoke to him often and collected a portion of his salary from Box Five. Christine had asked her Angel about it, and he had ignored the question and instead directed the conversation quickly back to her lesson.
"I must have," Christine mumbled.
The uncomfortable moment passed and Meg chatted about the inconsequential happenings in her convalescence as Christine ate her soup. She was passionately grateful for Meg's happy gossip, comfort and entertainment after long, lonely days of resting. Presently, Madame entered and brushed her dry hand across Christine's forehead. A darting glance confirmed that her medicine vial was empty and the stern ballet mistress smiled.
"Your fever has broken. Good." She rounded on her giggling offspring, pinning her in place with a gimlet glare devoid of any real irritation. The amused sparkle of hazel eyes matched between mother and daughter.
"And you, young lady? Go wash for supper! Go on, shoo!" Meg grinned impishly.
"Oui, Maman. See you later, Christine!" as Meg danced away, Christine felt the cool, concerned weight of Madame's gaze.
"I feel fine, Madame. I promise," Christine said earnestly, standing up to prove it. The world tilted and she stumbled.
"Mon Dieu," Madame muttered, touching her crucifix surreptitiously as Christine sat on the edge of the bed, giggling ruefully to herself.
"Perhaps we should put this off another night. You're still weak . . ." Madame said softly.
"No!" Christine protested, "No, Madame, please! You promised! I feel fine!"
Madame cupped Christine's cheek, her eyes searching Christine's face. The familiar, comforting fingers placated her with a soft pat.
"Very well, my dear. It will be better to get this over with."
Get it over with? What does that mean?
Christine mulled over Madame's cryptic words as her adopted mother helped her bathe, combing the snarls from her impossible mane of hair and attempting to tame it with pins, to no avail. Finding a suitable dress was quite a task. Christine remembered all too clearly the potent heat of Angel's anger. She had disrespected him by—how had he put it?—ah, yes, 'dressing like a slattern.' True, some of the costumes were revealing, but he hadn't protested before, and she hadn't had the time to change . . .
Madame made no comment when Christine chose a dress of dove gray with a collar up to her chin and sleeves down to her wrists.
Her hands quivered in excitement as Madame led her down the corridor, but instead of scaling the stairs to the music room, or descending to the chapel, Madame wove through the labyrinth of corridors to La Carlotta's cramped old dressing room. Dread weighted her steps. Not here! Not where he had rejected her! Was her Angel still angry with her? Christine would have touched the petals of the rose he'd given her to reassure herself, but in her haste, she'd left the battered, wilted bloom drooping in its glass in Madame's chamber. Outside the door, Madame grasped Christine's hands in a firm grim, eyes wide and almost pleading.
"Christine, I will be waiting outside. Rap twice on the door if you need me, or if you feel frightened."
The dread broadened and swelled. Did Madame know something she didn't? Why on earth would she be afraid of her Angel? True, he had a frightful temper, but he would never hurt her! Christine nodded bravely, struck mute by apprehension.
Madame unlocked the door. Christine tripped a little on the rug crossing the threshold, pitching forward. She steadied herself on the vanity and smiled for Madame. A token grin was all that greeted her before she closed the door between them. A quick glance around the room found it empty save for the vanity, dressing screen and huge, ornate mirror. Christine bit back her disappointment. Maybe he chose not to reveal himself to her. Why would he, after she had angered him so?
The air pulsed with a primal heartbeat, the notes of some hypnotic melody fading to silence in her inner ear. No matter. He was here.
Her apprehension faded into nothingness. The only emotion she could muster was a wild, singing joy.
He was here!
"A—Angel?" she quavered, her voice trembled at its master's nearness. She gasped as the sumptuous timbre of his voice wrapped around her like the finest velvet cloak. How was it that such beauty could exist on earth?
"Good evening, Christine." Of all things, tears flooded her eyes at those simple words. Such sweet relief after all these long weeks denied the utter pleasure of his voice!
"Master," she whispered reverently, sinking into a deep curtsey.
"I must apologize for my behavior of late, my dear child. I am horribly impatient at times and you caught me after a very long and trying day."
Christine frowned. How could an angel possess such vices as impatience, or suffer something as banal as exhaustion?
"No forgiveness is necessary, Angel," Christine said quickly, eager to put that awful day behind her.
"Nevertheless, I would like to have it," he replied and Christine let her eyes slip closed briefly under the honeyed crooning.
"Y—you . . . you are forgiven," Christine stuttered, wondering at his odd mood.
"Thank you, Christine," he said softly. Silence stretched between them, and Christine wound a lock of her hair around her finger, unsure of how to continue. What could she say?
"Angel? Could I ask you something?" she wondered, her fragile courage threatening to give way.
"Of course, my dear. Ask anything."
"Madame Giry—my warden and foster mother—she . . . she said that you wanted to . . . see me. I thought that meant . . . face to face. I would love to see you, Angel."
Christine steeled herself against the awesome lash of his anger, the thunderous power of his voice bringing her to her knees. Instead, the seductive crooning of his voice melted seamlessly into a soft song.
Flattering child, you shall know me
See why in shadow I hide
Look at your face in the mirror,
I am there inside!
A veil of mist flooded the room and with the curious deliberation of a sleepwalker, Christine lifted her gaze to look at her reflection. Something shifted—the world perhaps, the curtain dividing the corporeal and spiritual. For she saw the figure of a man in the mirror. A negligent wave of his hand and the mirror moved aside. Then her angel stood in a shabby pink dressing room with her. Had she breath, Christine would have laughed at the incongruity of it. Had she a voice, she would have sang in exultant joy.
Instead, she stared.
He was such an imposing figure, her Angel. A dark angel, she realized. No denizen of Heaven could dress in such a flowing black cape that ebbed and rippled like wings. No servant of God could wear such mysterious eyes, such a full mouth. Her Angel was no more. A man stood in his place.
Her only thought was: Of course. Of course it was him!
When this realization dawned on her, she studied him with greater care. A white mask covered the right half of his face. She noticed it, dimly recognizing the oddity, and dismissed it as inconsequential. The left side was a careful sculpture of masculine beauty, with black hair combed severely back, a strong jaw, full lips, and his eyes!
She could puzzle over their color, some intermediate between blue and grey, for hours. But, like a sculpture, his expression was unreadable, blank and remote. The rest of his form was garbed in black evening dress, tailored to perfection. He graciously allowed her time to adjust to his presence, his solid reality.
The pulsing of the air thickened, gathered around him like his cloak. Christine felt young and foolish and drab next to his dark splendor.
Christine at last found control of her tongue.
"Hello." As soon as the word left her lips, she hated herself for its air-headed idiocy. The tension ringing in the air lessened and there was the barest hint of curl at the corner of his mouth.
"Hello," he replied. The beauty of her Angel's voice remained, if lacking its echoing resonance within her head. An absurd surge of relief rushed through her.
"I am obviously not an angel," he observed carefully, as if explaining a simple concept to a dull child. She felt dull and stupid, but responded sharply.
"I can see that." His lips thinned, turning down in a faint frown.
"Would you care to hear my explanation?"
"Please," she replied politely, as if he had asked if she wanted two lumps of sugar in her tea.
He gestured toward the vanity bench for her to sit. Christine felt hypnotized by the gesture, a slow unfurling of wrist and fingers, imbued with remiss elegance. She sank gracelessly onto the bench. To her surprise, he plucked the candelabra from the vanity. As he leaned close, his scent wafted over her, a mix of spicy soap, leather and ink, as heady as incense. Angel turned toward the mirror and Christine took in a breath to ask him what on earth he was doing.
"Look here, Christine," he murmured, the words ringing faintly of command. As she had for the past eight years, Christine obeyed the voice without question and looked. He held the candelabra to the mirror; the glass shone faintly gold with the wavering reflection of his startlingly white mask above it.
"See? The mirror is on runners. A mechanism here opens it," he explained, pointing with one black leather clad finger.
"I see," Christine replied dutifully, though she did not.
"W—why did you show me that?" she asked as he closed the mirror and replaced the candelabra.
"So you harbor no illusions about my divinity. I am a very talented magician and illusionist, but I am no angel."
"Then why did you say you were?" Christine asked innocently.
"Allow me to explain," he asked, with the faintest edge to his voice. Not anger, but something she couldn't identify. As he spoke, her eyes drifted to his mask and a dreadful curiosity livened in her belly.
What was he hiding?
XXX
Erik tried very hard to keep the desperation from his voice, and contain the blatant rationalization of his actions. God in Heaven, what he wouldn't give to know what she was thinking! Christine normally had a face as transparent as glass. It was his blighted luck that she would learn the trick of inscrutability now!
To be in the same room, breathing the same air, looking into the eyes of his beloved was heady stuff; he felt drunk on her easy acceptance, clumsy at her calm attention. No tears or hysterics—a very rare occurrence for him.
He finished speaking and waited tense and desperate for one word of pardon, one gesture of approval. He grasped for his equanimity. In his current state, he would fall to his knees and kiss her feet if she said one kind utterance.
Pathetic, observed a sneering voice in his head, the same that tormented him with the ridiculousness of his love.
"I see," she said, dropping her gaze to her folded hands.
Those two syllables, stated in the soft, calm tone, as if remarking on the weather, nearly drove him raving mad. He wanted to shake her shoulders, kiss her hem, beg and grovel like a dog. Instead, he waited. A man of thirty-five years could learn some bloody patience!
"Thank you," she quavered and Erik was horrified to find tears in her eyes. He had made her cry!
"Christine," he whispered, pleading.
She looked up at him and his chest squeezed at the sight of her pale, luminous face with tears like pearls on her cheeks.
"Thank you for caring enough to sing to a lonely child."
His jaw worked as he groped for a reply. This slip of a girl seemed determined to defy his expectations and set him off balance. He was wheeling wildly between passionate gratitude and stinging guilt.
"It . . . it was my pleasure," he stuttered.
Holy God, he was stuttering!
The tips of his ears burned. He almost laughed. How long had it been since he'd felt embarrassed?
A nauseating emotion—with all its sweaty-palms and tingling skin.
"Why do you wear a mask?" she asked, brown eyes wide and trusting like a wobble-legged fawn. It served as a quick cure for his embarrassment—now something like grief howled in his chest. Erik's fingers strayed to the mask, as if to ensure it was still in place.
"I . . . I am . . . disfigured."
The words emerged from deep in his chest, a sorrow that haunted his every moment. He watched the pain ripple across her face, watched that shift in her eye from innocent question to accursed pity.
He hated pity!
"I'm sor-" He held up a hand, cutting off those paltry words.
They were profanity on her lips.
Erik turned his back to Christine, staring at his reflection in the mirror. A man of lofty height, the considerable power of his intellect, and his peerless voice, all this was nothing compared to the flaw to his face! Now Christine would only see the mask, the monster, never the man, like everyone else.
"Angel?" Christine said, anxiety evident in her voice.
"Don't call me that," he snapped, refusing to look at her pale, frightened face, "I am neither angel nor phantom nor ghost."
I am a deformed wretch of a man who will spend the rest of my miserable existence worshipping the ground you walk on, he thought.
"Then what shall I call you?" A tentative question, tiptoeing around the pitfalls of his perilous temper. She was afraid of him. His misery deepened.
He thought a moment.
"Call me Maestro. Call me Teacher," he said, hoping against hope that she would at least allow him to tutor her. Her voice was the only drug on earth that could save him from the white hell of morphine.
"Could you tell me your name?"
Erik smiled thinly at her, momentarily struck by her delicate beauty. A wayward curl had sprung free from its prison of pins and swung gaily at her right temple. He longed to touch her hair, bury his face in its warm softness.
"I have given you much to think over this evening. Perhaps another time."
Erik turned toward the mirror, toward blessed escape from that quavering voice, those needling questions. He was a raw nerve, every jab and prick of word or glance caused a stab of pain. Would it be better—safer—to worship her from afar? She could destroy him with a word; tear his hard-won peace to shreds with one slender hand.
"Ang—I mean, Maestro?" she called after him. He stopped, like a dog at the jerk of a leash.
"Yes?" he replied, not looking at her.
The soft fall of her footsteps forced him to turn and look at her. His breath caught and he memorized the way the candlelight backlit her fuzzy halo of hair, catching reddish highlights in its golden warmth. She stood so close . . . he could smell her—the heady aroma of violets and clean linen. The humble fragrance was more precious to him than all the perfumes in Persia.
"When . . . when will I see you again?" Hope surged through him, bright and terrible. Did she want to be near him, even after his betrayal of her trust? Comprehension dawned and Erik's jaw clenched around a cry of pain.
"Ah, your lesson," he said wearily, "I must consult Madame Giry, but would tomorrow afternoon be amenable?"
"You know Madame Giry?" Christine asked eagerly, interest burning like a candle in her face. He would rather her come at him with a knife than that innocent, eager look.
"Yes. She has been my friend for many years."
Christine began to ask another question, but Erik stemmed the flow with a raised hand.
"Later, child. I will see you tomorrow, yes?" She nodded enthusiastically. Erik bowed with a flourish of cape.
"Then I bid you adieu."
A quick sleight of hand produced his customary rose bound in a black ribbon out of thin air—this one as red as blood. She accepted the rose with trembling hands, as if it were some holy reliquary. The ember of hope flared again, kindling to an infant flame in his chest.
"Goodnight, Christine."
"Goodnight, Maestro."
XXX
Were it not for the rose, Christine would have assumed that she would never see him again. Holy Virgin, the look on his face when she asked what the mask hid! Curse her careless tongue, her accursed curiosity! Even as he admitted his scar, she longed to snatch the words back and restore the tenuous camaraderie between them.
Angel, Maestro . . . he was just so big, literally and figuratively.
He towered over her, possessing a lissome grace to match his lofty, dignified carriage. But more than his physical height, the pulsing power of his presence filled the room, pressing her back against the walls, suffocating her. She would orient herself under his whim, the ocean under the moon's pull, a tiny spec of flotsam in a typhoon's surging current.
Christine followed the Madame into her chambers, bursting with questions. Madame set the ring of keys on their hook and turned to face her. Concerned speculation gleamed on those gimlet hazel orbs, and Christine reassured her with a beaming smile. The night was not a complete disaster, after all. He had promised to meet her tomorrow! Even the name he'd given her was a promise: Maestro. Surely he wouldn't abandon her now!
Madame Giry made an abortive gesture toward the cot on the floor. Christine sat obstinately in one of the creaking chairs. How could she think of sleep? His presence energized her.
"How do you know Maestro, Madame?" she asked. A brief flash of humor darted across the Madame's stern features.
"Maestro, is it? He told you we knew one another?" Christine bobbed her head in a swift nod.
"He said you have been his friend for many years," she parroted. The corner of Madame's mouth lifted, an extraordinary tenderness softening the world-worn angles of her face.
"Did he? Well, it is the truth, Christine. I met him when I was very young."
"How did you meet? Where does he live? What's his name?" the questions surged from her like a wave. Madame laughed softly, revealing twin curves of small, white teeth.
"Ah, ma petit, I'd rather not reveal his past without his permission. He will tell you in his own time." Christine frowned, stroking the waxy outer edges of the rose's petals. Its sweet fragrance wafted in her nose, potently intoxicating.
"Fine. But he was going to ask you—may we resume our lessons tomorrow?" Madame considered it a moment, muttering: "If Marie takes your position, then someone from third string must replace her . . ." She nodded to herself in affirmation. At last, she replied, "I don't see why not."
As Christine burst into a torrent of 'thank yous' and feverish compliments, Madame swept her hand in a curt dismissive gesture, as she did whenever a ballet rat offered an excuse for tardiness.
"Now off to bed with you! You need your rest!"
Christine scurried off to change with a smile on her face.
XXX
He was like the coiled spring of a trap, threatening to spring and snap closed over an unsuspecting bystander. It had been a mistake to leave his home—on foot, no less, without even César to aid in escape. If he was accosted, he had nothing with which to defend himself beyond his bare hands. Though they were formidable in their own right, he missed the coarseness of his Punjab lasso up his sleeve or the reassuring weight of a dagger at his side.
It seemed obscene to bring weapons into Christine's presence.
After supper, in the young glittering hours of the evening, the streets were crowded. Tension radiated off of him in palpable waves. His height had its advantages, he thought dryly, shouldering his way through the throngs. A few uttered startled exclamations, but upon seeing his tall bearing and glowering, masked mien under the shadow of his fedora, their words died on their lips.
How long had it been since he'd mingled with humanity? Minette was most adept in her capacity as liaison—he was never without parchment or ink, and less important things like food and a reputable tailor. His morphine was delivered by a discreet and surprisingly reliable dealer. Apparently there were many rich nobles who found morphine a fashionable addiction.
Hmm . . . five years at least.
A careless foot trod on the hem of his cape and a muted hiss alerted him to the abused fabric. In that five-year interim, apparently rudeness had become commonplace. Erik's jaw clenched and he rounded on the hapless offender.
"Excuse me, sir," Erik snarled, his icy politeness meant to be interpreted as insult. The blond young man in his path blinked mildly, his white smile dying as he turned from his conversation with his companions.
"De Chagny," one of his friends alerted, pointing with his cane. This de Chagny looked down and moved his offending appendage. Erik yanked the cloth close to his body.
"Clumsy as a bear, eh Raoul?" another of his companions jibbed.
"My apologies, Monsieur," he said with such gut-churning sincerity that Erik hated him immediately.
It was the entire tableau that affronted him—this charming young man—a boy, really, Erik thought uncharitably—handsome blond and wealthy judging from the cut of his clothing, surrounded by friends casually enjoying the warm night air. Jealousy, he recognized dimly. Slightly mollified by his manners, Erik nodded politely.
"Gentlemen," he murmured, tipping the brim of his fedora.
"Good evening, Monsieur," Raoul de Chagny called after him.
Some time later, Erik found himself at the door of a jewelry store. The walk had calmed him considerably, along with the thinning crowds. Most couples atwitter with spring fever, were happily strolling along the Bois.
A tottering shopkeeper was sweeping the interior of his store, preparing to close up. Upon impulse, Erik entered, the bell affixed on the door uttering a faint tinkle of notes. The old man looked up from his intent sweeping and his rheumy blue eyes flared wide. He held his broom stiff across his chest like a shield. In an effort to look less threatening, Erik removed his fedora and smoothed his hair.
"Good evening, Monsieur. May I peruse your wares?" Erik said, taking on a low, almost hypnotic tone. If he was allowed time to speak, he was usually able to diffuse whatever violent emotion his presence induced.
The man relaxed, a sharp gleam in his eye telling Erik that he was a canny businessman.
"Of course, of course. You startled me, for a moment, Monsieur. Forgive an old man," he rasped, setting aside broom with the slow, limping care of an arthritic.
"No offense taken, Monsieur," Erik replied. The old jeweler lifted the hinged portion of his counter and stepped behind the glass-guarded shelves.
"Now . . . what would you like to see?" he asked.
"An engagement ring," Erik heard himself say. As the man offered his obligatory congratulations, Erik inwardly cursed. What in God's name was he thinking?
An engagement ring?
He was mad.
She'll never know. Christine is my student and will remain so. It's a private indulgence. A fantasy, he told himself.
"And ah, what sort of price range are you-"
"Money is no object. Show me the best you have."
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A/N: He he he! There you have it; Erik has revealed himself to his beloved Christine. I love the idea of Erik and Raoul meeting outside the Populaire, on neutral ground. And an engagement ring . . . a wax doll may be on the horizon if he keeps this up!
Tell me what you think! I thank you kindly for your reviews and encouragement! They give me the warm fuzzies inside.